


Of rats and dogs

by Gwyllt



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drama, Gen, Minor Character Death, Out of Character, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Tension, Undercover, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Mr. Orange is an undercover cop. He has no doubts - until he and Mr. White crosses their paths.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	Of rats and dogs

**Author's Note:**

> So, it is my first English fic. English isn't my native language, but I tried to do my best x.x  
> Numberless thanks to my beta-reader Fallenskies, who've read my silly translate of original fic (also mine) and corrected a billion mistakes in it.
> 
> ***
> 
> Oof it can be difficult.
> 
> I was absolutely charmed by Mr. White and Mr. Orange tension in a movie, it's soooo ineffable! And I've read tons (well actually not, but plenty) of so-so fics with second-rate boring porn, and decided to write something by myself. I don't pretend this is a masterpiece (as I told, the tension between these two is literally ineffable), but I've done my best and I think it's pretty damn good, though there is a little OOC.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

When this crazy bitch points a gun at him, Freddy doesn’t think about being a cop or that there’s a civilian in front of him. He shoots first. The red spot blooms on the blue blouse, and Freddy’s staring at it, fascinated: his hands have done it. Blood spreads over the threads, sprawling like a web, and he doesn’t notice a woman cocking a gun.

A shot thunders. Freddy shudders and then realizes: this isn’t for him.

“Keep your eyes open, Mr. Orange," Mr. White says and throws the woman out of the car’s cabin. Freddy gapes at the body blankly, hoping that help arrives in time: the bank clerks should have called paramedics already. He shifts his gaze, noticing blood on the curbstone, and a white bone fragment sticking out of the woman’s temple.

The bitch’s been shot twice and died from hitting a fucking curb! He chokes back a stupid giggle in his throat.

“Move, move, move!” Mr. White pushes him forward, sobering him up, and Freddy swallows his sour saliva.

The back seat is warm, and it seems like the car’s been left under the sweltering heat for the day. In the car's window, Freddy sees a puddle of blood is growing underneath the curly dark hair, and then the car drives off into the streets of Los-Angeles.

Freddy wants to hear the sound of sirens, a sign of the chase prompting him that all of this will be over soon, but the only thing he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. He turns around, making sure the streets are empty and nobody’s tailing them. His heart drums right up into his throat, faster and faster, but Mr. White is driving slow; he looks carefully to his right and left, keeping the speed limit.  
Freddy straightens up, pressing himself into the seat.

Freddy wraps his fingers around the gun’s grip, digging his nails into it, to distract himself.

Freddy has never believed the stories about the first kill, but he feels sick.

“You alright, kiddo?” Mr. White’s hazel eyes find Freddy’s reflection at the rear-view mirror, nailing him to the seat.

 _I’ve never killed anybody_ , Freddy wants to say, but different words escape his mouth.

“You’ve killed three cops.”

Mr. White doesn’t argue and spins the steering wheel.

“I was faster.”

The gun’s smooth barrel lies in Freddy’s lap, the muzzle pointing at the driver’s seat. Freddy can pull the trigger now. He can bring Mr. White in with a bullet in his back, and say that he’s been shot by cops and died in the car…

Freddy bites his lips, trying to remember: was or wasn’t someone of those guys there when they’ve left? Was there someone who might call his bluff? Mr. Blonde, Mr. Blue, Mr. Brown?...

No, nothing. He doesn’t remember.

He clicks the safety on.

And finds himself shaking. A moment ago he’s been melting from the heat in a ridiculous cheap suit, and now his ass is freezing like he’s stranded naked on the North Pole. He hasn’t signed up for any of this crap. All he’s had to do is to infiltrate the Joe Cabot’s crew and help to nail them, that’s it! Nobody’s told him about shooting people!

Nobody’s told him people would shoot back either.

When the car stops at an abandoned morgue, Freddy’s almost calm. He’ll handle this. He just needs to wait a little bit longer: Joe will come to get him, and this shit will be over.

“Come on, go,” Mr. White barks an order, and Freddy follows.

Freddy expects everything to go south. He knows: if something can go wrong, it will, but everything goes smoothly. Mr. Pink takes diamonds, nobody notices an ambush on the next street, and, in the end, nobody knows he is an undercover cop. Mr. White and Mr. Pink argue whether they should wait for Joe or leave; then Mr. Brown and Mr. Pink both leave to pick up the diamonds. Freddy almost believes everything has worked out… But then Mr. Blonde arrives at the morgue, and the fairy tale ends.

Mr. Blonde brings in a cop in the truck. He’s dragging him like a naughty cat—the cop’s feet are sliding across the floor and he slips. Mr. White doesn’t move, and Freddy forces himself to do the same. When Mr. Blonde’s dragging the cop past him, Freddy realizes: he is in deep shit.

Marvin Nash.

They give each other the look, and Freddy doesn’t need another one.

 _Save me!_ Marvin’s black eyes are full of dread.

 _You know I can’t_ , Freddy answers silently. His fingers dig into his gun’s grip, and he doesn’t notice Mr. White's intent gaze.

When Mr. Blond starts torturing Nash, knot tights in Freddy’s stomach. Marvin looks at him, and Freddy reads it in his eyes: _Shoot him! You have a gun, for God’s sake, shoot him! Kill them ALL or I’ll rat you out!_

The screams are drilling into his ears, almost wringing his head off. Mr. Blonde dances to the tune, enjoying himself, and Freddy sees the absolute horror in Marvin’s eyes, suddenly, just like that, realizing—he will give them up. He will, because he won’t get out alive, and the truth will stop the pain. A shiver goes down Freddy’s wet spine, covered with sweat: when Marvin gets it too, all will be over. Freddy bites his lower lip and doesn’t notice his hand, the one with the gun, raising up slowly.

Mr. White puts his arm on Freddy’s shoulder, and Freddy almost pulls the trigger.

“Go get some air, kid. You don’t need to see that.”

Freddy shudders and lowers his hand. Mr. White’s gaze is calm, and Freddy suddenly realizes—this shit doesn’t scare him. How many times he’s seen that? Ten? Thirty? And how many times he’s been a part of it?

“I’ve no idea what are you talking about!” Nash shouts. “Please, I don’t know!”

Freddy turns his back to Martin and walks out onto the street, the agonized cries echoing in the back. The door shuts behind him, and Freddy shifts on his feet nervously. The gun burns his hand as if calling him out on his weakness: he could’ve easily killed _(Marvin)_ every single bastard inside the morgue and _(throw off the suspicion)_ get an award for courage instead of risking his ass.

“Your first big case, right?” Mr. White lets a puff of gray smoke into the air—Freddy hasn’t noticed when he lights a cigarette. “That’s al’right. Everyone’s scared at first.”

The morgue’s walls don’t muffle the screams, and Freddy feels the drops of sweat trickling down his spine. Maybe, now Nash is spilling it all out...

“Mr. Blonde isn’t scared,” Freddy drawls. Mr. White offers him a cigarette, but Freddy says “no” and shifts his eyes sideways. He hears “ _ohgodpleaseidontknowwhatyoumean_ ” and forces himself not to listen.

And he quietly clicks the safety off.

“He isn’t,” agrees Mr. White and gives Freddy a sideways glance. “And it’s bad. You know why?”

“Why?” Freddy echoes on autopilot. He doesn’t want to talk; in fact, the conversation distracts him, not the opposite. When Freddy hears Mr. White’s soothing voice, he gets calm, but when Mr. White’s voice quietens, the fear comes back.

And Freddy hates fear.

“Fear is good,” Mr. White says, and Freddy flinches: how-could-he-read-his-mind?! “When you’re afraid, you’re more cautious, careful. Attentive. You can see more, hear more, predict more”.

Nash’s screams are getting ear-splitting, and Freddy hears “ _jesusnoplease_ ” ending in a high-pitched shriek.

“Kid?” Mr. White’s voice brings him back into reality. “Do you know what people often confuse with fear?”

“I.. I’m...” Freddy takes a short breath, coughs, clearing his throat to make his voice sound more confident. “No. I don’t”.

“Panic,” Mr. White throws the cigarette butt out. “Panic—it’s a lot of fear. When the fear controls you, not the other way around.”

Freddy starts trembling—a sharp pain pierces his arm. He lowers his eyes and sees his fingers curled around on the gun’s grip.

He makes an effort to relax his tensed muscles.

“When you’re on your first case or the shit hits the fan—panic is OK. Everyone panics. But you have to remember: you are in charge, not your fear. Don’t do this ‘I am not afraid’ thing, it won’t work,” Mr. White’s voice is casual, like two days ago, when they were sitting in the car, talking about the case. “Have you ever been to the sea?”

“Huh?” Freddy flinches when Mr. White touches his shoulder.

“The sea,” Mr. White repeats, looking at him. “Did you ever try to swim against the waves?”

“Uhm...” Freddy’s trying to find the hidden meaning of Mr. White’s words but gives up pretty quick and lets him leads the way. “No, I didn’t”.

“When the wave comes,” Mr. White pulls a second cigarette from the pack and slowly lights it up. “You can fight it. Then it rolls you over, smashing against the rocks. If not the first one, the second then, but it will. And if you want to make it, you need to jump into the wave and let it take you. So, panic is like a wave. If it comes, you need to jump into it. You need to feel panic, feel it completely, with all your gut. And then, kid, give yourself a couple of seconds and take it under control. Because this is your fear, and only you can decide how deep it could be.”

Freddy nods but his thoughts are far away from Mr. White’s clever words. “ _Pleasepleasehavemercyihaveason_ ”, he hears from the door and guesses—how long Nash lasts.

“Kid?”

Freddy hears Mr. White’s voice and raises his eyes.

“You are in a panic right now.”

Mr. White’s insight takes Freddy’s breath away. A shiver is born within his body, it rolls down through each and every muscle, those shrinking and squeezing. Freddy’s breathing is shallow, he can hardly inhale, almost choking on the crisp air, if Mr. White’s ever needed the proof about his observation, now he’s gotten it. The look of the hazel, silver-rimmed eyes is detached, calm, deprived of any signs of surprise. Freddy could’ve withstood any torture except this.

“I’m a cop, Larry.”

The words flee his mouth on their own, the tears boiling in the corners of Freddys’ eyes—he doesn’t want to die. “Jesus, Larry, I’m a fucking cop, I’m a cop, I’m...”

The words run out; he gasps and swallows, choking on the saliva. The trembling spreads onto his hands, and Freddy drops the gun.

This is it.

He’s done.

Freddy closes his eyes.

“Do it quick, Larry,” Freddy gabbles, barely grasping his own words. “Please, Larry, just…”

“Two seconds, kid”—Larry’s palm heavily lays on Freddy’s shoulder—“Take it under control. You are in charge.”

His heart is pounding in his temples—thump, thump.

Freddy opens his eyes. His gun still lays on the ground like a useless toy, and Larry stands so close to him that Freddy can see the dust on his shirt.

“You...” Freddy breathes out.

“Know,” nods Mr. White. “Too obvious. Nobody shot you, and these cars...”

Freddy doesn’t believe his ears.

“Fear helps to see more,” Larry smirks, and then the look in his eyes gets cold.

Freddy feels a gun’s barrel pressing against his ribs.

And then realizes—he doesn’t want to, he’s not ready, not like that…

“I’m sorry,” Freddy whispers with his dry lips. “I’m sorry, Larry, I’m so sorry...”

Hazel eyes are piercing into his soul, and the words seem lifeless and empty. Freddy bites his lips, his eyes fixed on Mr. White, and his gut shaking with fear. He wants to scream that he’s confessed, he’s told about it, he hasn’t set them up… But he knows nothing will fix it, no words possibly could.

He’s shaking like a leaf on the wind, although there’s not a whiff of a breeze.

Larry looks straight into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Larry,” Freddy repeats, and he would do it a thousand times if it only could help.

A shot rings out. Freddy’s out of breath, collapsing—and then he realizes that he is still alive.

Marvin.

“You knew him,” Larry says and Freddy nods. One, two, five, ten times. He can’t speak and can only guess when his turn comes. “Why your people haven’t come yet?”

“They… They wait when Joe comes. All of this is about Joe,” Freddy answers. “They’ll wait until Joe comes, they’ll wait even if we’ll all die here...”

“Joe won’t come. He’s too smart,” Larry smiles at him but his eyes are cold.

Freddy nods.

“I know.”

Larry’s gun is still pressed into his ribs, and Freddy’s life is hanging on a thread. Larry’s palm feels heavy yet warm on his shoulder, but Freddy feels like it’s freezing cold.

The morgue’s door opens and Mr. Blond steps outside, waggling the gun carelessly.

“Mr. White,”—Mr. Blonde says, the smile cutting his face in two parts—“you’d never believed what our friend has just told me.”

He stares at Freddy and Freddy clings closer to Larry: Larry will protect him, Larry won’t let… Larry firmly squeezes his shoulder, and for one short moment, Freddy believes in it.

“He finked on the snitch,” Mr. White says, and Mr. Blonde nods, pointing at Freddy with his gun.

“You are hugging him right now.”

The gunfire dazing him, Freddy drops onto his knees. Then Mr. Blonde drops with a hole in his chest, his now useless gun falling into the dust.

Freddy shudders.

Larry studies him, eyeing Freddy up, his gun pointed to Freddy’s head. Freddy doesn’t move an inch, closing his eyes.

_I’ll never set you up, Larry._

_You can believe me._

_I’d never..._

Freddy says nothing.

He wants to find words, he wants to tell something clever and important, as Larry’s said about fear, but his thoughts aren’t coming up together, a tangled mess of shreds and pieces, and every word flashing in his mind seems dumb and stupid.

The gun’s barrel cools his head.

Freddy wants to tell something. To tell that today’s been the first time he has shot at people, that he robbed a bank, that he let his colleague die, tortured by a fucking sadist. That he takes a case just of boredom, just in order not to howl in the mornings at his empty flat. He wants to tell that the days spent with Larry have been the best days of his life, and he is so sorry that...

“I’ve screwed this all up,” Freddy says.

Larry is silent. Freddy sees his gun, a couple of inches from his knee, and then looks away.

A click sounds above his ear and a strong hand pulls him up.

“Go away,” Larry says, his voice isn’t filled with warmth anymore.

Freddy takes a step aside, watching Larry get in the car. He starts the engine and drives off, not looking back. Freddy is left alone.

When Mr. Brown and Mr. Pink come back with jewels the police are waiting for them in the morgue. Joe Cabot, of course, doesn’t show his face.

At interrogations, Freddy Newandyke is nothing but an exemplary officer, spilling it all: addresses, names, phone numbers, cars makes, and models. He’s telling about everything he was able to find out.  
Except for one thing.

Lawrence Dimmick, Wisconsin, Milwaukee.


End file.
